When the TV at My House Starts Ringing

The dim yellow light was the only source of illumination in the tiny apartment in this long, cramped tenement building.

The bulb’s tungsten filament glowed red, barely lighting the family of five packed together in the room.

The air was a mix of lingering warmth from the meal and a damp smell that never seemed to go away.

“Where am I supposed to hang these clothes? If they stay here, people will have to turn sideways just to get past.”

The mother grumbled as she cleared away the dishes, wiping the greasy tabletop back and forth with a rag.

The father, Li Jianguo, ignored his wife’s complaints. He held a copy of the Workers’ Daily up to the light. Its edges were already frayed.

“Look, it’s in the paper again. A farmer raising chickens in Guangdong has become a ‘ten-thousand-yuan household.’”